I was bought up with death.
Like others have horse racing in their blood.
As a child I remember drawing a girl kneeling over a grave.
I was as focused and passionate as Edgar Allan Poe.
Dead calves, dead cattle, dead horses,
dogs, cats, roos, snakes, dead, dead, dead.
Killed by the hands of my parents, my sisters and me.
At home, at church, at the School of Arts Hall,
All the dead soldiers hang on the wall.
Their names and ghosts everywhere.
Lest we forget.
Some say I’m bi-polar so I experience morbidity.
Fascinated by death, decay, its finality.
Now I’m more interested in its transformational, spiritual qualities.
Good Art is about the intense experience of life.
Death is thick in my blood.
My great grand parents, my grand parents and my father are dead.
I worship death like magic, like my truth.
I was born to die.
Jesus’s body wasn’t dead when she said he rose.
The necromance witches held the secret to their breasts.
When he finally died he reached for the sun and turned into light.
Pure light, a realized soul. No more room to grow.
I will build my birth stone at the cemetery before I reach fifty.
It’s opposite the rodeo ground where horses chase cattle.
It will be round like the magic sun.
My death date still a mystery.
My circular memorial will be next to my grand parents in that bush cemetery.
A white, nude pieta angel holding a Siamese cat with a bikini top not to offend.
It will be placed on a plinth like a sculpture with plaques holding my words.
I will take flowers and visit the land to bless my birth until I die.
All the graves are rectangular in this rural place of death.
I’ll have the only round peg to fit next to the square holes.
I’ll buy my two plot of real estate.
I need the space for my numerous lives and to fit the circle.
At my funeral, fire works will explode at dusk like at my birth.
People can come and see my final tribute to Art.
Read my writing. It will give them something to talk about.
A reincarnation consciousness may bud and later flower.
I won’t be buried under my white angel statue.
I want you to seek me out.
I’ll be buried under an Australian native fruit tree in this bush cemetery.
No coffin, just the elements decomposing me and turning into fruit.
The birds and people can reap sustenance from my body.
The tree can create shade and habitat.
I’m adding something in the world to replace me.
My soul will leave my body when the Catherine Wheel spins and sparks.
I watched the Inventors show on TV.
They had an organic burial where you are placed in a body bag
lowered into the ground, neat and they recycle the coffin.
Cremation uses a lot of energy and it is not carbon friendly.
All I know is I will be a cat.
Nurtured by the hand that feeds me.
Live twelve good years then be put to sleep.
I will resurrect as a higher person.
Let it be so.
A poem about my funeral monument to Art.
By Red Sunset